Page 22 of Hunt for You

“Dick!” I squealed and threw myself into his chest.

He laughed as he stumbled back a step and almost toppled down the stairs. I gasped and grabbed for him, pulling him back up until he was steady.

He patted my arm, still beaming. “Thank you, dear. I’m not as steady as I was. But goodness… I am just so glad I left my phone here. Otherwise I would have missed you. See how Godworks, Bridget. We call this adivine appointment.And there I was muttering about the drive back to get it… Gosh, it’s good to see you.”

That pinch in my eyes came back as he lifted a soft, wrinkled hand to pat my cheek.

“It’s really good to see you too,” I said honestly. “And I’m sorry I didn’t warn you. It kind of happened on a whim and… is there somewhere we can go to talk?”

“Yes, yes! Of course. Come with me—we’ll go make some coffee in the manse. I have a Keurig now,” he said proudly.

I swallowed a snort, but nodded and took the arm he offered because he was an old school gentleman. Then walked with him, down the stairs and around the building, through the parking lot, past what must have been the hall the sign talked about, then through a high wooden fence that looked like it had only been built recently, and down a cute garden path to a small cottage at the back of the chapel.

The whole walk—which was long because he was old—he asked me questions about my life and the people I’d gone to high school with, none of whom I’d kept in touch with. But he had. He’d been the chaplain of our fancy private school, and the only actually good person within those walls, in my opinion.

I apologized for having no gossip for him, but it didn’t matter, because he had plenty.

I heard about how the class of 2015’s chastity-belt wearing princess, Katrina, had eventually married and had kids with the former manwhore, Jimmy. And since there were progeny, that meant they’d definitely had sex.

Richard chuckled. “I didn’t get to do the service, but they invited me to the wedding, and it was beautiful.” He continued as we walked, telling me what he’d seen that day—and all the familiar names who’d been there, which gave me a strange pang… these people were all still friends?

Then he ushered me through the gate in the fence and up a short path to the cottage.

“Would you like normal coffee, or the hazelnut flavored? That’s my favorite,” he asked warmly as we stepped into a small, dingy, but comfortable little place, ushering me into the small entryway that was right next to an even tinier, galley kitchen,

I hesitated. I didn’t usually drink coffee. It wasn’t good for my heart. And, while I wouldn’t really care if Richard gave me the cup that ended up killing me, I’d feelterribleif watching me die gavehima heart attack. The man had earned some time to live without dealing with other people’s shit. Specifically, mine.

“I really don’t need coffee,” I said hurriedly. “I just wanted to talk to you Richard. I don’t mind if we don’t have drinks.”

“I also have ice water, or maybe a coke somewhere…” he said, frowning as he bent to look in the ancient refrigerator in the corner of the tiny kitchen. “What could I get you?”

I shrugged, and it just came out.

“I don’t suppose you have an extra bible?”

I had to bite my lip when he stood up so fast he banged his head on the inside of the fridge and the bottles inside clanged. Then he stepped back and straightened more carefully, muttering and rubbing the back of his skull.

“Say that again?” he said hoarsely, frowning in confusion.

Fucking priceless.

As Richard tried to get over his shock, I made up a story about just doing some research about various religions, but not knowing what books to read. Richard hurried off and got me one and talked at length about where I should start. I thanked him, but couldn’t really take it in because the moment I had the book in my hands I realized… I had the whole list.

I was prepared.

I could send the image to Cain and this hunt would beon.

It was hard to sit for another hour and catch up, but I made myself do it because Richard was a wonderful man and I was trying to be nicer to people. Plus, Gerald was going to cream his jeans when he learned that I’d already spoken to someone like he asked.

Of course, it wasn’t all easy.

At some point Richard gave me The Look—brows furrowed, eyes pinched with concern, voice spoken softly and with too much care.

“So… how areyoudoing? Have you heard from your father?”

I wanted to slap fifteen year old me for her moment of weakness when she’d shared our past with Richard who had gingerly tried to enquire about why, in the past year, I’d developed a penchant for opening my legs for a new boy every week or so. And being a complete bitch to everyone else.

“I’m fine. I’m still in counselling. Dad’s still in prison. And I don’t want to talk about him,” I said, honestly.